


Petals

by judithandronicus



Series: Olive's Marvel Bingo Fills [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Asthmatic Steve Rogers, Barista Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Has Cats, Emotional Constipation, Hanahaki Disease, Happy Ending, M/M, Mild Blood, POV Alternating, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Steve Rogers, POV Tony Stark, Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sickfic, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Student Bucky Barnes, Vomiting, War Veteran Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23789926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/judithandronicus/pseuds/judithandronicus
Summary: Steve Rogers knows what it's like to be sick. With actual illnesses that exist, like the asthma that always gets worse in the spring. But when he starts coughing up flower petals, rational explanations fly out the window. But is it really possible that he's contracted a fatal case of lovesickness?  Will his friends be able to help him before time runs out?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Tony Stark/Stephen Strange
Series: Olive's Marvel Bingo Fills [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719307
Comments: 70
Kudos: 98
Collections: Bucky Barnes Bingo 2020, Tony Stark Bingo 2020





	1. The Goddamn Masses

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1: Fill for Bucky Barnes Bingo square B3 (Hanahaki Disease)  
>  Chapter 2: Fill for Bucky Barnes Bingo square K2 (Pining)  
>  Chapter 3: Fill for Tony Stark Bingo square T2 (Stephen Strange)  
>  Chapter 4: Fill for Tony Stark Bingo square R2 (Animal)  
>  Chapter 5: Fill for Tony Stark Bingo square S5 (Writing Style: Colorful description) _Be warned, it's gross_  
>  Chapter 6: Fill for Bucky Barnes Bingo square U2 (AU: No powers)  
>  Chapter 7: Fill for Bucky Barnes Bingo square K4 (Intimacy without sex)  
> 

It started in the spring.

The daffodils were starting to bloom along his favorite footpath in Owl’s Head Park, tight, yellow-green buds beginning to emerge on the bare branches of trees. The pollen wasn’t bad yet, which is why the sudden sneezing fit caught Steve so off guard. Eyes watering, he stumbled off the path to lean against the gnarled trunk of an old oak tree as the sneezing turned into coughing turned into gasping for air. He remained there until the attack subsided.

That sneezing fit was the last normal thing Steve remembered.

Somewhere after his thirty-fifth sneeze, Steve finally regained his equilibrium. Until he looked at the sleeve of his hoodie, right at the elbow where he’d covered his face. It was smeared with a gross combination of mucous and blood and…what appeared to be flower petals. A goddamn bloody show of faintly yellow, torn-into-pieces daffodil petals.

What the ever-loving fuck?

Before he could fully descend into a panic for coughing up bloody _flowers_ , Steve’s brain slipped seamlessly into problem-solving mode. _Thank you, Sarah Rogers._ He fumbled for the albuterol inhaler in the pocket of his cargo pants—sue him, he needed to carry his shit, and they had lots of pockets—and took a couple puffs. Freaking out about a completely new and different way his body was fucking him over could happen much more easily with his lungs doing their job.

Steve took a few raspy gulps of air, counting off his inhales and exhales like Natasha had taught him in yoga, and eventually felt his heart-rate settling. Only then did he reach into (yet another) pocket for his phone. He scrolled through his contacts, not sure what or who he was looking for. After all, it’s not like _coughing up fucking flowers_ is an everyday occurrence.

Stephen Strange.

Steve vaguely remembered that the aloof guy from his bar trivia team was some sort of doctor. Maybe he’d have some clue what was going on, or at least give him an idea for where to find out more. He tapped on Strange’s name and hit call.

Well that was a waste.

Shoving his phone back into his pocket, Steve huffed in frustration and started back toward the path. Medical professional or no, Strange had been about as helpful as the little white-haired ladies having a prayer circle to cure his asthma when he was a kid.

Opiate of the goddamn masses, he grumbled, angrily kicking up the gravel from the path as he walked. Stupid metaphysical bullshit from a fucking _doctor,_ no less? It was downright insulting.

Come the fuck on. Heart-sickness? Steve Rogers has had more than his share of _actual_ illness in this lifetime, _thankyouverymuch_ , no need to add on some sort of imaginary flower-coughing disease straight out of a goddamn storybook to the mix.

There was absolutely no way in hell that he was coughing up fucking daffodil petals because he had contracted some sort of deadly lovesickness.

Strange was off his goddamn rocker.

For the next twenty minutes, Steve went on autopilot and tried not to think about coughing or flowers or any of the fantastical bullshit Strange had tried to feed him. When he got home, he’d do a proper WebMD search to find out what sort of syphilitic puppy cancer was the root of his flower coughing fit.

The danger of walking on autopilot, though, was that sometimes he didn’t end up where he meant to be, which is how Steve found himself opening the the door _not_ to his building, but to the coffee shop next door.

“Welcome to Strange Brew!” The familiar voice wrapped around him like an embrace, leaving Steve feeling warm, if a bit dazed at ending up here. “Oh, hey Stevie! How’s it goin’?”

Behind the counter Bucky Barnes grinned at him, those grey eyes twinkling and almost translucent in the afternoon sunlight. As he tried to curl his lips into a matching smile, Steve felt a tickle in his throat.

“Hiya, Buck,” he began, but was cut off by a sudden, violent coughing fit.


	2. Don't forget to tip your barista

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky wasn’t even supposed to be here this afternoon. He was supposed to be at the library working on his Urban Policy lab project. But that was neither here nor there; it’s not like Darcy had up and come down with the flu on purpose. Besides, he reminded himself, he could use the money. He could always use the money.
> 
> \--
> 
> War veteran turned grad student and barista Bucky Barnes has a _thing_ for a certain Brooklyn twink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fills square K2 of Bucky Barnes Bingo: pining.

Bucky wasn’t even supposed to be here this afternoon. He was supposed to be at the library working on his Urban Policy lab project. But that was neither here nor there; it’s not like Darcy had up and come down with the flu on purpose. Besides, he reminded himself, he could use the money. He could _always_ use the money, he thought, a bit absent-mindedly.

The silver lining to the day, though, wasn’t the extra cash. It was getting to see a certain five-foot nothing firecracker who always stopped in for a cold brew on his way home from work. Steve Rogers was like nobody Bucky had ever known, a Brooklyn punk full of piss and vinegar and a sense of righteousness that would just be off-putting from…well, from anyone else, really.

Like the overly naive kids in his grad program, the ones who came from money and didn’t quite understand the reality of the people whose lives depended on the policies they studied. The ones who came to Strange Brew to study, and not because they had to pull their third double-shift of the week because rent was due next week and things were tight.

Okay, enough of that. Bucky shook his head and blinked, and then turned away from where his gaze had settled on the three people from his Public Finance and Fiscal Management seminar who had been sitting in the corner talking, loudly, for two hours already.

 _Pull yourself together, Barnes,_ Bucky commanded himself, the voice of his interior monologue sounding an awful lot like his old C.O., James “Rhodey” Rhodes.After all, it ain’t like they’re _trying_ to be assholes. _It just comes naturally for some people_ , his asshole brain helpfully supplied.

“Get it together,” he muttered under his breath, walking to the opposite corner of the shop and starting to wipe off tables.

As he settled into the repetitive nature of his task, Bucky let his mind wander, and it eventually landed itself back on Steve Rogers, who had been one of his wandering brain’s most frequent destinations ever since his roommate Natasha had introduced them a year ago. Something about the guy had just got under Bucky’s skin and settled there, lying almost dormant except for when he was in close proximity to Steve. And when _that_ happened? Good night ladies; that’s all she wrote; don’t forget to tip your barista. It bubbled up and made Bucky feel like he was going to boil right out of his skin.

God, Steve was beautiful. The way his golden hair would flop so carelessly over those brilliant azure eyes; how a flush would paint his cheeks when he got riled up, whether out of excitement or anger; how he tended to chew on that pouty bottom lip when he got shy; it was allbreathtaking.

Now, if only Bucky could work up the goddamn courage to do anything beyond pine from afar. Maybe get a feel for what that blush looked like up close and personal.

 _Knock it off,_ his Rhodey inner monologue ordered. Bucky felt his own cheeks heating up just thinking about Steve, and hoo boy was that inappropriate. He finished off with the tables and headed into the back to wash his hands before coming back out to the counter.

_Ding a ding._

“Welcome to Strange Brew!” Bucky’s customer service voice was on autopilot, calling out before he even turned to see the customer enter. His eyes lit up when he saw the small figure walking through the door, the smile spreading wide across his face. “Oh, hey Stevie! How’s it goin’?"

“Hiya, Buck—” a violent cough wracked through Steve’s body, cutting off his greeting. Steve doubled-over at the intensity of it. Without thinking, Bucky lept over the counter and rushed to Steve’s side. He rubbed a broad palm across the delicate planes of Steve’s back to soothe the smaller man. _Fuck, is that blood?_

“C’mon, Stevie, let it out. That’s it. Come on.” He wasn’t quite sure what the fuck he was saying, but Steve’s shoulders softened just a bit as he talked, so he kept it up until the fit subsided, and Steve’s whole body just kind of wilted. Bucky caught him and kept him upright, though—after all, he was just a wisp of a thing—and guided him to sit at the nearest table. He knelt down between Steve’s knees, sliding his hands up and down along Steve’s biceps as he waited for Steve’s breathing to return to normal.

Steve fumbled in his pockets and pulled out an inhaler. Steve’s hands were shaking as he brought it to his lips, so Bucky reached out to steady him, cupping the nimble, birdlike hand holding the device in his own while Steve took a couple of hits. Steve closed his eyes, those beautiful golden lashes fanning out so pretty against his flushed cheeks— _knock if off, Barnes; for fuck’s sake, he’s sick—_ and took a few deep breaths. Bucky could see Steve’s lips moving, counting silently as he breathed in and out, and he sent up a silent thank you for Natasha’s yoga classes as he watched Steve settle before him.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Steve mumbled, and the way his voice was low and rough from the coughabsolutely _did not_ go straight to Bucky’s dick. Dammit.

“Nothin’ to apologize for, champ,” Bucky murmured, realizing that he was still running a palm up and down Steve’s arm when he felt something hot and wet against his skin.

Splatters of red. Globs of yellow. For the life of him, it looked like Bucky was staring down at bloody flower petals. _What the fuck?_

It took Bucky a few moments to process what he was seeing.

“Hey Stevie,” he began, trying like hell to keep the worry out of his voice, “I think we need to get you to a doctor or something. I…uh, I think that’s blood.”

Bucky was surprised when Steve opened his eyes. Surprised that Steve…wasn’t? He just looked tired. Resigned.

“Yeah, I know.”

“You in the habit of coughing of blood? Or eating flowers for lunch?” He was trying for light and breezy, but he was pretty sure it fell flat.

“I got no idea, Buck,” Steve sighed, “no fuckin’ idea.”


	3. Differential Diagnosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “As I said earlier, the differential diagnosis for coughing up flowers is Hanahaki disease,” Strange said, not even bothering to look up from the tome he was reading. “What else do you need to know?”  
> Steve gaped at the other man, open mouth stuttering soundlessly like a fish out of water. That Sherlock meets House, M.D. vibe that made him unstoppable at trivia made him a real dick everywhere else.  
> Is he for real? What fucking else do I need to know?  
> “Well, shit. I don’t know,” he began, “maybe something like how the fuck did I catch a goddamn fictional disease?”  
> \--  
> Steve's condition worsens, and he starts to wonder if Strange is right.

No way was this happening.

There was no _goddamn_ way in fucking hell that this was actually _happening_.

With a shaky hand, Steve brushed a damp tendril of hair away from where it was clinging to his sweaty cheek, tangled in his eyelashes which were _not_ damp with tears, goddammit.

Bucky was still kneeling in front of him, his hands now resting carelessly on top of Steve’s thighs, like he could just _do_ that. Like the soft weight of his palms against the knobs of Steve’s knees wasn’t electric. Like it didn’t send wildfire flaring up and down every single nerve in Steve’s body. Like it didn’t make his heart race and his dick jump. Like it didn’t mean a goddamn thing.

Because of course, it didn’t mean anything. Not to Bucky. He was just concerned for a friend, because Bucky was a stand-up guy who cared about his friends. And Steve had just fucking horked up bloody flower petals like a a goddamn cat with a hairball, so _of course_ Bucky was gonna be concerned about that.

“Stevie?” Bucky hesitated, “you doin’ alright there, now?”

Groaning inwardly, Steve reached for the napkin dispenser on the table and tugged a handful out. As he mopped up the gory mess from his sleeves, he struggled to school his voice into something calm and collected.

“S’nothing you need to worry about,” he muttered. “Sorry ‘bout the mess.”

“Forget the mess,” Bucky said. “Are you okay? Do we need to get you to a hospital or somethin’?”

“Said ‘m fine,” Steve growled. “Just need to get a coffee and I’ll be outta your way.” He stood up abruptly, knocking Bucky off-balance in the process. When they were both standing, Steve raised his chin, catching Bucky’s concerned gaze with his own defiant one. For a pregnant moment, the two men stood there, wordless, before Bucky backed down and headed behind the counter.

“Gimme a minute to wash up,” he called over his shoulder, “you want the usual?"

“Yeah.”

When Bucky turned his back to him, Steve let his shoulders slump. He felt a tickle in his throat, that already too-familiar sensation of something starting to burn somewhere deep in his chest. Through sheer force of will, he bit back the urge to open his mouth, and this time, the heaving came almost silently. The taste of blood and bile and something cloyingly sweet filled his mouth to the point of bursting, and he held it in as long as he could until it was too much. Steve brought the crumpled handful of napkins to his lips and spat the mess into it, and as quickly as he could, he dashed to the garbage to eliminate the evidence.

“Alright, Steve. One extra-large cold brew, cream and sugar.” Bucky seemed to look anywhere but Steve as he slid the cup across the counter as he rang up the sale. “$4.45.”

Gagging on another wave of sour-sweet, Steve reached for his wallet and pulled out a five. “Keep the change,” he mumbled, dropping the bill on the counter and grabbinghis drink.

He managed to make it out the door and around the corner before doubling-over and coughing up another round. _Fuck._ He took a sip from his coffee to wash away the taste of bile andblood and…and fucking _daffodils._ And for a while, Steve just stood there, his head cloudy and his throat raw, blankly staring down at the mass of yellow and red.

“Outta the way, dipshit.” The dulcet tones of an irritated New Yorker jarred him out of his daze. Steve shook his head in disbelief at what he was about to do, because there was absolutely no way in hell that he had contracted some sort of deadly lovesickness. Was there?

“Hey, Short Stuff,” Tony grinned, welcoming Steve into the airy penthouse with a hug, “long time, no see. How’ve you been?”

“Like you don’t know already,” Steve grumbled against his friend’s shoulder.

“Eh, I’d rather hear direct from the source.” Tony quirked an eyebrow as he held Steve at arm’s length, and then lowered his voice. “How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know,” Steve shrugged, “This ain’t exactly familiar territory for me.”

“If anyone can figure weird body shit out, it’s him.”

Steve huffed out a resigned breath as he pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “S’why I’m here, man. Didn’t know anywhere else to go."

Tony chuckled softly. “Such a rounding endorsement. Stephen will be thrilled.”

Steve felt his cheeks flush, and tried to backpedal. “Sorry, man, it’s…it’s not that I—um, I mean…”

“I’m fucking with you, Rogers. Besides, he can stand to have something keep that ego in check. And coming from _me_ , you know that’s saying something.” Steve barked out a laugh at that, feeling lighter than he had since this whole flower bullshit had started. Trust Stark’s weird brand of self-defacing braggadocio to get him outta his funk.

“Thanks, Tony.”

“Stephen’s in his study. Go fix your flower curse.”

Steve found Strange sitting in an oversized armchair in the corner of his study, nose buried in a large, leather-bound book. He made no acknowledgement as Steve approached.

“As I said earlier, the differential diagnosis for coughing up flowers is Hanahaki disease,” Strange said, not even bothering to look up from the tome he was reading. “What else do you need to know?”

Steve gaped at the other man, open mouth stuttering soundlessly like a fish out of water. That Sherlock meets House, M.D. vibe that made him unstoppable at trivia made him a real dick everywhere else.

Is he for real? _What fucking else do I need to know?_

“Well, shit. I don’t know,” he began, “maybe something like _how the fuck did I catch a goddamn fictional disease?"_

With an irritated sigh, Strange slammed his book closed and peered up at Steve appraisingly. “You’ve contracted it, Rogers, which clearly shows that it’s _not_ a fictional disease,” Strange countered, and the easy logic of it had Steve seeing red.

“What the fuck kind of doctor are you, anyway?” he grumbled. “Your bedside manner is shit.”

“Neurosurgeon,” Strange answered, “and my speciality is saving lives, not kissing asses. Now would you like me to help you or not?”

Steve slumped into the empty chair across from Strange.

“Yes. What should I do?”


	4. Forget me not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That went well.” Bucky slumped over the register, counting Steve’s change to drop into the tip jar.  
> “Huh?” The petite brunette across the counter tilted her head, eyeing him curiously.  
> “Nothin’, ma’am,” he muttered. “What can I get for you?” And with that, Bucky threw himself into his work, doing his best to shake himself loose from the lingering sense of rejection.  
>  _Don’t take it personally, idiot,_ he chastised himself. _He’s sick. Nobody’s on their best behavior when they feel like shit. Besides, his world don’t revolve around you._
> 
> Somehow, Bucky’s attempts to cheer himself up managed to make him feel even worse.
> 
> \--
> 
> Bucky's having a bad day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony Stark Bingo Fill (card 3130): R2 (animal)

“That went well.” Bucky slumped over the register, counting Steve’s change to drop into the tip jar.

“Huh?” The petite brunette across the counter tilted her head, eyeing him curiously.

“Nothin’, ma’am,” he muttered. “What can I get for you?” And with that, Bucky threw himself into his work, doing his best to shake himself loose from the lingering sense of rejection.

_Don’t take it personally, idiot,_ he chastised himself. _He’s sick. Nobody’s on their best behavior when they feel like shit. Besides, his world don’t revolve around you._

Somehow, Bucky’s attempts to cheer himself up managed to make him feel even worse.

Any desire to actually study had died a painful death long before Bucky’s shift ended, so instead of hitting the library, he headed straight home, where he was greeted at the door by two grumpy cats yowling and weaving between his feet, doing their damnedest either to get his attention or murder him. It was probably a combination of both.

“Yeah, yeah, ya fluffy little demons,” Bucky said as he carefully stepped into the kitchen, “gimme a minute.” Bucky pulled the dry food out of the cabinet and poured it into their bowls. Alpine launched forward and attacked his dinner with a possessive little growl, but Liho just stood there, looking up at Bucky with disdain. “Murderous fur balls don’t get wet food.” Deciding he wasn’t worth her attention, Liho stalked off. Probably off to plot his slow death.

“Nat,” he called out, “you home?”No answer.

Bucky grabbed protein shake from the fridge—sue him, he didn’t feel like cooking—and flopped down on the sofa. He pressed a knuckle into the knot behind his right ear, wincing at the sensation that radiated from it. He could feel that sucker from right behind his eye all the way down his goddamn _spine._ After a couple of minutes of slow kneading that caused as much pain as it did relief, he switched to the other side. The tension was even worse than usual tonight, and that was saying something. It had been a long-ass day. Only…it _hadn’t._ He hadn’t even gone to campus.

_Huh...maybe I’m coming down with something._

After a few rolls of his neck and shoulders, Bucky let his head drop back. He was asleep before it hit the cushion.

“James, wake up.” Natasha’s voice was…surprisingly gentle, especially compared to how she was shaking him. He felt a cool hand against his forehead, which was sticky with drying sweat. “You’re burning up.”

“When did you get home?” Natasha brushed a few damp strands of hair out of his eyes as she looked down at him.

“W-what?” His throat felt like he’d been gargling with glass shards. She was still talking to him, asking questions, and Bucky got the impression that she expected him to actually answer them.

“Have you taken anything for the fever?”

He ignored her. “What time is it?”

“So that’s a no, then,” she frowned. “Don’t move.” She got to her feet and went…somewhere, Bucky didn’t feel up to turning his head to watch. When she returned, she had a glass of water and pills in her hand.

“Take it.” He sat up so that he could comply, and that may have been the worst decision Bucky ever made. His mouth flooded with saliva and— _something_. Metallic and sour and sickly sweet and suddenly Bucky was nauseous and dizzy and needed to get to the bathroom _now._

On shaky feet, he hurried down the hall, a hacking cough overwhelming him as he collapsed in front of the toilet, knees cracking against the hard tiles. He knelt there, heaving over the bowl as the dry cough turned wet, spitting the bloody mess until nothing remained. _He hoped._

Gingerly, he backed himself up against the cool porcelain of the tub, closing his eyes as he rested the back of his neck on the edge. He concentrated on his breathing and was only vaguely aware of Natasha entering the room.

“You okay?” she asked, pressing a cool, damp cloth to his forehead.

“Not sure yet,” he croaked.

Bucky could hear Nat moving about in the small space, but didn’t quite feel up to opening his eyes yet. “Prrrrow?” Liho jumped up onto the edge of the tub, gave his temple a curious sniff, and then trotted off somewhere else in the apartment. Bucky gave a half-hearted smile at the gesture. _Cats,_ man.

“What the fuck, James? Are those forget-me-nots?”

Natasha was scared.

_Shit._


	5. Unstoppable Forces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha stopped at the step just before the landing and just _stood_ there, a petite slab of granite dressed inLululemon yoga pants. His limbs and brain both sluggish from the flu bug or whatever it was, Bucky stumbled into her. And yet, somehow, rather than sending his five-foot nothing roommate tumbling forward, Bucky merely bounced back onto his ass. Nat was both the unstoppable force and immovable object in one fiery, petite package, and Bucky knew it was a lost cause to put up anymore resistance.
> 
> Tony and Stephen see the big picture, and start the wheels in motion to cure Steve and Bucky. Meanwhile, Natasha is a good bro.
> 
> Tony Stark Bingo Fill: S5 (Writing Format: Colorful Description)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, I apparently underestimated how many licks it would take to get to the center of the lollipop on this one. There will be 2 more chapters after this one. My apologies, but I let the characters run wild, and they just trampled all over me a little bit.

_Morons. They’re both fucking morons._

“Come again?” Tony pinched the bridge of his nose, then massaged the space above his eyebrows with thumb and forefinger in a futile attempt to soothe headache bubbling up behind his eyes. “Seriously, Nat, I need you to repeat all of what you just said. Just gimme a sec. I’m putting you on speaker.” He set his phone on the counter.

“Babe? C’mere!” He called out. When he didn’t hear a reaction, Tony added a gruff “Now!”

Stephen sauntered into the kitchen, the water from his damp hair dripping onto his bare shoulders, then sliding down his chest. “You bellowed, dear?” he deadpanned, quirking an eyebrow at Tony, whose tongue suddenly felt a bit too large and heavy in his throat.

“W-what was that?” Tony asked in the general direction of Stephen’s waistband.

“ _Guys!_ ” Natasha barked through the phone. “A little help here?”

_Oh, right._ Tony swallowed thickly, then looked to the counter as he blinked off the distraction of his half-naked boyfriend. “So Stephen’s here now; tell him about Bucky.”

“He’s sick—” Natasha began. Tony rolled his eyes, and huffed.

“—fast forward to the interesting part.” In the silence that followed, Tony felt the weight of Natasha’s steely gaze all the way across town.

“He’s throwing up flowers.”

“Flowers?” Tony bit back a laugh at the incredulity Stephen managed to convey in that word. _Like that’s somehow shocking._

“Forget-me-nots, specifically.”

“Is your roommate in the habit of ingesting flowers, Ms. Romanov?”

“Lose the formality, Strange.” Natasha sounded remarkably calm, given the circumstances. Only the slight hitch in her breath betrayed just how worried she was. “And of _course_ James doesn’t eat flowers.”

Tony watched a wry smile start to tug at the corner of Stephen’s lips. _God, he’s such an asshole,_ Tony thought fondly, _but he’s_ my _asshole._ Tony cut back in before Stephen got the chance to be more of a dick.

“Look, Nat, we know what it is. Get your boy over here ASAP, ‘kay?”

“Thanks, Tony.” The call dropped, leaving Tony to face off with a grumpy neurosurgeon.

“I wasn’t going to draw it out _that_ much longer,” Stephen growled, closing the distance between them.

Tony leaned in, so close that his lips brushed against Stephen’s as he spoke. “You know you’re cute when you pout, Doctor Strange?” He batted his lashes as he backed away, grinning like the cat who ate the canary.

With an irritated grunt, Stephen turned on his heel and headed toward the bedroom. “Just for that, I’m gonna leave you in charge of calling Rogers and getting him here.”

“Goddammit.” Bucky grunted from the exertion of just walking down the stairs _,_ for fuck’s sake, but it was the principle of the matter. “I don’t need an uber to get to Stark’s place.”

Natasha stopped at the step just before the landing and just _stood_ there, a petite slab of granite dressed inLululemon yoga pants. His limbs and brain both sluggish from the flu bug or whatever it was, Bucky stumbled into her. And yet, somehow, rather than sending his five-foot nothing roommate tumbling forward, Bucky merely bounced back onto his ass. Nat was both the unstoppable force and immovable object in one fiery, petite package, and Bucky knew it was a lost cause to put up anymore resistance.

“Alright,” he mumbled. He stared at a broken tile on the landing as she offered a hand and helped him to his feet. “Guess it wouldn’t hurt to conserve my energy. We can get a fuckin’ uber.”

“Thank you, James.” She pulled her phone out of her coat pocket. “It’ll be here in 3 minutes.”

Natasha smiled sweetly as Bucky glared down at her. He couldn’t maintain the heat behind his gaze for long, though, because he felt another attack coming on. His insides were clenching up as if someone had reached down deep and started squeezing and twisting on his organs. Clenching his stomach, Bucky doubled over, gasping for air, suddenly struggling to take even the shallowest of breaths. The black and white tiles on the lobby floor swirled into a blurry mess as his legs wobbled, his knees buckling under the strain of holding himself up; somewhere in the back of his mind he realized that Nat was supporting the entirety of his substantial weight, keeping him (relatively) upright as she patted and rubbed his upper back like you would to coax gas bubbles out a baby.

If he weren’t so busy actively dying, he’d have been embarrassed at it.

But fuck if it didn’t help, her burping him like a goddamn _infant_ , somehow forcefully ejecting whatever it was that was clogging his esophagus. He coughed and sputtered, his tastebuds again flooded with that horrendous combination of bile and blood and sickly sweet decay. Thankfully, he managed to turn away from her just in the nick of time as he hurled, the gooey mess of purple landing on the floor beneath his feet instead of down his roommate’s designer althleisure-clad back.

Once the vomiting settled, Bucky gulped in harsh breaths into the burn in his lungs dissipated. All the while, Natasha continued to slide her palm back and forth across his shoulder blades. The firm pressure of her hand combined soothed him, and the sound of her own deliberate inhales and exhales gave him a pattern to follow with his own ragged breathing until it settled into something resembling steady.

“Let’s go, James.” Natasha guided him out the door to the small black sedan waiting at the curb.


	6. Anagnorisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something cold clenched tight inside his chest as Steve realized that Strange was right. He squeezed his eyes shut, but not before a single tear broke free and slid down his flushed cheek.  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> Steve has a moment of recognition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Aristotle's [_Poetics_](http://classics.mit.edu/Aristotle/poetics.html).
> 
> Bucky Barnes Bingo Fill: Square U2 (No Powers)

“What was so damn important you couldn’t tell me on the phone?” Steve shoved past Tony with no preamble, heading straight for the kitchen. He grabbed a beer from the Meneghini, familiar enough by now to open the right door immediately. “Want one?” he called over his shoulder as he ducked to reach inside the fridge.

“Oh gee, what great hospitality,” Tony muttered under his breath, “offering me my own beer.” He cleared his throat, rolling his eyes as he watched the back of Steve’s head. “Sure thing, champ.”

Setting two bottles onto the granite island, Steve pulled out his Swiss army knife and opened one, then slid it across to Tony. But before he opened his own, Steve sagged forward, his head sinking and forearms resting on the countertop as though opening the bottle had worn him out.

_What the fuck?_

“Thanks.” Tony took a long pull of his beer, eyeing Steve with concern as he stood there like he had to save up the energy just to open the second bottle. “You alright there?”

“Just—” Steve grunted as he fumbled with his own bottle, “just a little tired, is all.”

“Here, let me.” Before Steve could put up a fight, Tony had grabbed the bottle and multi-tool from Steve’s hands. Steve accepted the open bottle gratefully, his lips quirking up at one corner into something that looked like a smile’s depressed stepsister. “Cheers, man,” Tony lifted his drink toward Steve, and they clinked the bottles together. When Steve went to take a drink, though, Tony furrowed his brow. This wasn’t like Steve. Steve didn’t just let people do things.

_What the actual fucking fuck?_

“Go hang out on he sofa. I’ll get Stephen.”

Steve gave him another feeble attempt at a smile, and then trudged to the sofa.

Tony swallowed harshly, and tried to shake off the anxiety starting to bubble in the pit of his stomach.He headed in the general direction of Stephen’s study and their bedroom. “Doctor Strange, paging Doctor Strange!” he called out, feigning as much lightheartedness as possible, “You’re needed in the living room!”

****

_KnockKnockKnockKnock._

Steve opened his eyes, slowly blinking back into consciousness as daylight flooded his senses. He was disoriented, the way he always got when he fell asleep unexpected like that. Everything was off-kilter, the world shifted slightly off its axis as he tried to get his bearings.

_KnockKnockKnockKnock._

He pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes in a vain attempt to calm the insistent pounding in his head. It didn’t help. If anything, it just got louder and more insistent.

_Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock._

Steve sat up from where he’d landed, sprawled out on the plush, overstuffed sofa at Stark’s place, a soft blanket draped over him. Apparently he’d had the sudden need for a nap. He rolled his shoulders and neck, working the kinks out of stiff muscles, when his eyes landed on his beer, damp with beads of condensation. He couldn’t have been out that long, then.

 _Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock._ “Come on, Stark, I know you’re in there!” A familiar voice called from outside the door, and _oh,_ Steve realized, that’s the _door._

“Tony,” Steve’s voice was raspy as he called out, “I’m gonna let Nat in.” He rose to his feet with a groan,wrapping himself up in the fluffy blanket that had to have been made from the unholy lovechild of angel feathers and silk, and sluggishly made his way to the door.

“Stevie?”

Bucky’s voice sounded about as rough as Steve’s throat felt, and Steve was struck with a pang of sympathy. And he looked...well, goddamn beautiful is how he looked, because Bucky was _always_ beautiful. But now there were dark circles purpling his eyes almost like a mask, made all the more stark by the wan pallor of his skin. He looked pitiful, and Steve wanted to wrap him up in that heavenly blanket and kiss his temple until Bucky felt better.

 _Fuck._ He felt that now all-too familiar sensation rumbling deep in his chest, his stomach suddenly churning as bile-sour saliva flooded his mouth. _Not in front of Bucky again._

“Sorry, gotta—” Steve spun on his heel and clambered down the hall, rushing to make it to the privacy of the bathroom before it hit. As soon as he reached the toilet, he crumpled over it, careless of the pain as his knees hit the tile. For what felt like an eternity, knelt there, struggling to breathe as he emptied himself into a toilet worth more than his apartment. If he wasn’t so busy puking, he’d have had a good laugh at the luxury of it, really. How many bells and whistles does something you poop in really need, anyway?

When the impetus to hurl his guts out finally subsided, Steve could barely bring himself to look into the bowl. Inside it, a yellow spiral of mucous and daffodil petals swirled in a soupy, congealing mess of crimson. It was getting worse. So much worse. Leaning against the wall, he dug into a pocket for his inhaler and took a couple hits, then let his head fall back onto the cool stone tile.

“Stevie?” Bucky rasped from outside the door, “y-you doin’ alright in there?” Steve’s unsettled stomach did a little flip-flop at the sound of it, and for just a moment, he allowed himself to believe that the catch in Bucky’s voice meant something. Something more than friendship, something special.

Something cold clenched tight inside his chest as Steve realized that Strange was right. He squeezed his eyes shut, but not before a single tear broke free and slid down his flushed cheek.

“M’okay, Buck. Just gimme a minute to get cleaned up.”


	7. How about forever?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So what you both have, it seems, is a terminal case of idiocy.” Strange swept into the open living area, like he was continuing a conversation Bucky forget they were having. Which, okay, was reasonable, given the massive levels of shit he was feeling at the moment. He glanced over to where Steve was perched at the far end of the couch, pale and sweaty, looking even more delicate than usual. Bucky imagined he looked about as miserable, himself, what with the recent tendency to work up hairballs made of goddamn flowers. 
> 
> \--
> 
> Bucky and Steve admit their feelings and feel better. Stephen Strange is an ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Barnes Bingo Fill: K4, Intimacy without Sex

“So what you both have, it seems, is a terminal case of idiocy.” Strange swept into the open living area, like he was continuing a conversation Bucky forgot they were having. Which, _okay,_ was reasonable, given the massive levels of shit he was feeling at the moment. He glanced over to where Steve was perched at the far end of the couch, pale and sweaty, looking even more delicate than usual. Bucky imagined he looked about as miserable, himself, what with the recent tendency to work up hairballs made of goddamn flowers.

God, just _looking_ at Steve so pitiful over there had him getting a little bit queasy. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breath, yoga-style like Nat kept reminding him. She pressed a soft, cool hand to the side of his face and swept a damp clump of hair off his forehead. “That’s it,” she murmured into his ear, “deep and steady breaths through your nose.” Bucky folded in on himself, allowed her to draw him close, tuck him up under her arm so that he could rest his head on her chest.

“Stephen, could you back up a little,” Natasha turned her attention to the lanky man leaning against the counter. “Since James and I still don’t really know what’s going on, lay it out for us.” The icy politeness in her voice made it apparent to everyone that she wasn’t asking a question, and fuck if anyone, even Stark’s asshole boyfriend, had the balls to go up against Nat when she used _that_ tone.

If not for the clenched jaw, Strange might have been able to pull off calm and aloof, but Bucky could see it twitching as he stood there, silently fuming. _Asshole._ Bucky chuckled, but the laugh was strangled in his chest, pierced by a tangled, thorny web, and transformed into a hacking cough. “Shit,” he doubled over, hoping to contain the damage of the gooey, floral detritus to his hands, or at least his own clothes, by pulling the hem of his shirt up to cover his mouth.

It didn’t work.

Bucky managed to gasp out a breathy apology as his whole body spasmed and he crumpled forward onto the floor, landing face-first at Natasha’s feet.

When he came to, Bucky was staring straight into the sun. No other explanation for it. Everything was hazy and white through his glassy, unfocused eyes. He was staring straight into the sun and just basking in the bright warmth of it.

“Bucky, you gotta wake up, pal.” The voice was soft and deep like a secret, burrowing into Bucky’s ears and filling him up with that warm light. He felt it moving through his insides, suffocating that tangle of thorns, softening the jagged edges ripping him to pieces from inside out, replacing the pain with sweet, beautiful relief.

Comfort.

Solace.

Bucky was ready to die, to let that warmth envelop him, swallow him whole, and hold him tight forever.

He had to be looking at the sun.

“C’mon, Buck, wake up now.”

Something wasn’t right. That voice. That deep, honey-smooth voice was cracking, and it wasn’t _right._ No way could something that soft and sweet sound so _broken_ in such a paradise of bright, warm light.

Bucky tried to blink, but felt his eyelids moving in slow motion. Felt a gentle hand cupping his cheek, the stroke of a fingertip above his brow. He leaned into the delicate touch, just the tiniest of movements, craving more.

Something warm and wet hit his cheek.

“Buck, please,” that broken voice begged, “for me?” How could that voice be so sad when it was the sun itself, warming and soothing and pulling Bucky into its orbit? Bucky would do anything for that voice, of course he would, how could he not?

_Stevie._

Bucky was staring up at the sky this time, the whole of the entire wild blue yonder distilled into two red-rimmed, cerulean eyes boring straight into Bucky’s soul. Steve Rogers, cradling Bucky’s head in his lap and stroking his face. _He’s crying,_ Bucky dazedly realized when he felt another hot splash against his cheek. _Why is he crying?_

“Stevie?” Bucky rasped, sounding for all the world like…well, like somebody who’d been choking up goddamn plants for days.

Steve shuddered at the sound of it, so hard it jostled Bucky where he was lying in his lap. The movement rustled something within his body, and then everything in Bucky’s world was blinding hot pain, stabbing and searing as it tore through his insides. He opened his mouth to gasp, but could do nothing but choke on the weight of his own tongue.

The world was getting darker around him, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do to stop it.

_I’m sorry, Stevie._

“Bucky,” Steve pled, “you can’t do this to me. _Please,_ Bucky…"

_I’m so sorry._

Steve didn’t deserve this, shouldn’t have to watch Bucky strangled to death on his own goddamn tongue. But fuck if it wasn’t a comfort to Bucky anyway, selfish bastard that he was, to know that he was here, safe in the arms of the man he loved, even if Stevie would never know it.

“Please, Buck,” Steve sobbed, “I love you so much, I can’t lose you. You need to hold on for me. _Please._ ”

With his next inhale, Bucky’s lungs filled with more air than he’d gotten in days, filled until he was choking on it, on fucking _oxygen_ , for fuck’s sake, and Bucky was giddy with it. Absolutely goddamn _giddy,_ somewhere from the dark recesses of his hypoxic brain, because he was finally _finally_ able to take in a normal breath.

“W-what did you say, Stevie?” he asked, because he knew that he must be hearing things, gone off the deep end or something. _I love you so much, I can’t lose you._

Steve was looking down at him, smiling all soft and sweet as the tears spilled down those delicate cheeks, now painted pink with a beautiful flush. He chewed on that pouty bottom lip for a moment, then closed his eyes like he was steadying himself.

“I-I…uh, I said that I love you.”

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

Something in Bucky’s chest was throbbing, pounding against the insides of his ribcage, and for the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn’t a strangling pain. Whatever it was this time, it felt an awful lot like hope.

“Did ya mean it?”

“Yeah, Buck,” he muttered. “I did. I do.” He was still stroking Bucky’s face, just an idle movement of his fingers. Bucky leaned the touch the way Alpine did, just basking in it, in the caress of Steve’s fingertips along his skin, tacky all over from a sheen of now-drying sweat, with damp patches where the splashes of Steve’s tears had mixed with his own.

 _Would ya look at that,_ Bucky realized, a bit stupidly, _I’m crying, too_.

“Me too, you know,” Bucky whispered. “I love you, too, Stevie. Have for such a long damn time, too."

In the moments that followed Bucky’s declaration—an eternity stretched out as the entire worldcontracted down into just the two of them—Steve’s beautiful face crumpled and almost simultaneously reformed into something more dazzling than the sun. If Bucky thought he’d been staring into the sun before, right now he was watching as the sun went full-on supernova.

_He’s so goddamn beautiful._

And then Steve’s lips were pressing against his, somehow Bucky was sitting upright and Steve’s hands were tangling into his hair and pulling him close. Steve was _kissing_ him, and Bucky wasn’t dying. This wasn’t some fever dream, and he wasn’t choking on forget-me-nots; Steve was kissing him and even better Steve _loved him back_ , and Bucky was floating on air.

“I love you so much, Stevie.” He breathed his confession into Steve’s mouth, then went straight back to kissing him. He never wanted to _not be_ kissing Steve Rogers ever again.

“Love you, too, Buck,” Steve panted between kisses, “to the end of the line, pal.” And then more kisses, punctuated by sweet nothings and professions of love, both of them careless of the world around them, of their friends awkwardly averting their eyes, until, at long last, a carefully aimed projectile pillow to their heads knocked them back into awareness.

“As I said before,” Stephen said, voice dripping with condescension, “a terminal case of idiocy. The cure for which is, quite simply, for the patient to know that their love is requited. How long, exactly, have the two of you been pining for each other, anyway?”

From where they were sitting on the floor, still wrapped up in each other’s arms, Steve and Bucky exchanged sheepish grins. Neither seemed particularly ready to talk. Bucky sure as shit didn’t know what he was going to say.

“That’s enough, Stephen.”

It wasn’t a challenge so much as a command. Natasha’s voice was almost magical in how it seemed to wrap itself around Strange and pull him toward the door.

“Yeah, c’mon babe,” Tony offered helpfully, “let’s give the two lovebirds a chance to talk things through.” He fixed them both with a withering glare, “since that’s something that neither of them ever thought to do.”

Bucky’s cheeks flared in embarrassment as he ducked his head down, chewing idly on the inside of his cheeks. He stayed that way for a while, not daring to look up even after he heard the door close behind the other three.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve began, reaching beneath Bucky’s chin to tilt his face up, “there you are, beautiful.” His eyes were twinkling, his lips curled up into a soft, private smile.

“Hiya, Stevie.” Bucky felt the flush spread from the tops of his ears down his chest, and he was tickled pink from head to toe at the knowledge that _he_ was the reason for that smile.

“I guess we have some stuff to talk about, huh?”

Bucky scrubbed a sweaty palm against the back of his head, suddenly feeling about as suave as a thirteen year old. “Guess so,” he stuttered, “good thing we got time, huh?”

Steve leaned in close, so close that his breath was a hot tease against Bucky’s lips. “If it’s alright with you, I’m good with the rest of our lives. How’s forever sound to you?” He ghosted those plump pink lips against Bucky’s, and fuck if Bucky didn’t whimper at it.

“Sounds about perfect to me, Stevie.” Bucky kissed him back, just as soft.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Steve rose to stand, and reached his hand out for Bucky, “let’s get started on that now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the hair pets, NeelyO, unkind ravens, and ahurtson! Y'all are the best!

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr!](http://marketplacehearteater.tumblr.com)
> 
>  **Flower Symbolism Fun Facts:**  
>  • The daffodil symbolizes rebirth and new beginnings. It became associated with new beginnings (and the coming of spring) because it is one of the first perennials to bloom after the winter frost.  
> • The forget-me-not signifies true love, and can also mean the remembrance of good memories.


End file.
